


Let Me Spell Out The Name

by aidennestorm



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Era, Captivity, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Psychological Torture, Starvation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-24
Updated: 2017-10-24
Packaged: 2019-01-22 04:46:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12473788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aidennestorm/pseuds/aidennestorm
Summary: Alexander Hamilton: a Continental soldier turned captive of George Washington, the commander of the Queen’s Rangers... surviving only on his anonymity, the one dignity he has left.





	Let Me Spell Out The Name

**Author's Note:**

  * For [seiya1331](https://archiveofourown.org/users/seiya1331/gifts).



It’s been hours.

Hours since you last heard him, saw him, touched him. More accurately, since _he_ touched _you,_ leaving you limp and boneless and throbbing, his spend and yours still sticky on your thighs, fresh bruises with the imprint of his teeth mottling your neck. Since he stood distant and silent in the entrance to your cell, his dark green jacket settled firmly over his broad shoulders once more, watching coolly, impassively, as his guards dumped you carelessly on your ragged cot. And instead of removing himself with a promise and a threat to return— a taunt— a cutting reminder of how completely and utterly he _owns_ you—

 _(You don’t fucking know me,_ you always immediately think in the vicious, vehement retort you haven’t yet dared voice. _You don’t know what I’m capable of. I am Alexander Hamilton and I will find a way out, just you wait.)_

—instead, he turned and strode away, sparing you not a single glance. As if even after all the moments you have been kept in his bed, used again and again for every one of his desires, you meant nothing. _Less_ than nothing. Out of all the indignities, all the horrors you have suffered at his hands, it was— shamefully, acutely— almost the worse.

 _You can’t leave me here,_ you protested, or tried to, your raw, well-fucked throat working mutely, but the door to your prison was pulled shut with a loud clatter and then you were—are— alone in the dark, with little more than the tattered remnants of your pride to soothe you.

Time passes. Time is meaningless, in this stifling place with no windows, no slivers of light that bleed in between the boarded walls. Usually you mark the days by your never changing meals: first a hunk of stale bread, the barest slice of dried ham, too little water. Then, presumably hours later, a bowl of tasteless gruel. But past the time you expect either one to appear, there’s no sign of anything or any _one._

Panic lodges in your throat, quickly tamped down. After an unknown number of… weeks (months?) trapped in here, serving this brutal commander’s whims, it’s understandable to lose track of the days; it’s understandable to _forget_. You trace the contours of your own name on your tongue, sharp and bitter yet comforting, the one thing he _hasn’t_ managed to take away. You inevitably collapse into a dreamless fitful sleep, arms curled around your aching stomach, hugging yourself as if you can keep the despair contained and the hunger at bay.

The next day— what you assume is the next day— is the same. No food, no water, no _Washington_. No sight of any of his soldiers, nor even the sound of booted feet on the flagstones or the creak of other doors. Your mouth is parched, each swallow tight and dry. You run your tongue over your cracked lips to wet them and the motion is painful. Difficult.

And then: a day and a day and a day and a _day_ until they blur together in a shroud of endless oblivion. When your strength returns in restless bursts of energy, you pace, bang on the door with tired fists, scream epithets hoarse and unintelligible, demand to speak to him. When the waves of _feeling_ crest tangled and overwhelming in your chest, you sob with frustrated, desperate tears too weak to fall. And when the dark crashes heavy on your shoulders, you press your hands to your mouth as if you can stifle the soul sick apprehension, the steadily growing dread that you have been left behind. Left to _rot,_ meaningless and forgotten, in this tiny enclosed purgatory that winds tighter and tighter with every passing moment.

When he finally appears, it is the most cruel dream you have ever had.

You are insensible, drifting in the nebulous blank between the waking and unconscious world— but his sudden touch is unmistakable, unusually gentle, carefully brushing the hair from your forehead. He smells of sweat and musk and horse and sunshine, of traveled roads under a limitless sky— at least, in the way you remember them to be— and you fight the impulse to squirm _closer,_ to inhale this proof of a world outside your four walls. When you pry open your eyes, your vision is blurry, unfocused, and the expression etched on his face as he leans over you looks like pity, like affection, like mockery. “My poor, dear boy,” he murmurs. “Let me take care of you.”

There’s a soft splash nearby and you struggle to rise, only to see his broad hand holding a white cloth, dipping it into a basin of water— water you haven’t tasted in what _must_ be weeks. You can’t suppress the low needy whine, and he shushes you with a hand on your chest, pressing you back to the cot. “Later,” he admonishes, and yields no further. He runs the cloth across your face, wiping away the smudged dirt, the blood, the tear tracks. When it passes over your mouth, your lips part and your tongue tries to capture any lingering droplets, and he huffs a short, exasperated sigh. “You promised to be good.”

You stare at him, confused. Did you promise such a thing? You can’t remember, but you have promised many things many a time, if only he would _stop_ — “I’m sorry,” you rasp, the first words you’ve voiced, and he presses a lingering kiss to your forehead that makes you tremble.

He moves your arms where he needs them, slips the shirt off over your head— _his_ shirt, not yours, even the only clothing he ever allows you belongs to _him_ — and then continues with a quietly declared, “I forgive you.” He cleans your neck, your shoulders, your chest, pausing periodically to rinse the cloth and start again, until there is scarcely a part of you left untouched. You shiver at the inexplicable tenderness, at the stale air against your cool, damp skin, then again in nervous, unsettled anticipation and fear when he firmly guides you onto your stomach, spreading your legs apart and running the cloth over your tacky, abused flesh.

You moan from discomfort more than any kind of pleasure, sharp and abrupt and too loud— and then there’s the dull muffled sound of the cloth dropped into the bowl, the creak and shift of the cot, the rustle of thick fabric. “I missed you, my boy,” he breathes, and then he is _there,_ a warm bulky weight kneeling between your thighs, rough thick fingers probing and stretching while you unsuccessfully stifle your cries in the threadbare pillow.

His soft words are incongruous with the careless way he soon withdraws his touch, leaving you shuddering and gasping. And then the blunt head of his cock is an insistent pressure, your hands grabbing and grasping at the sheets while he pushes himself inside you with a groan, inch by agonizing inch, until he bottoms out and the agony is so great blood roars in your ears and you struggle for breath, eyes nearly rolling back in your head, grip slackening—

“With _me,_ ” Washington growls in your ear, too heavy and too big and too _much,_ and the first firm roll of his hips and tug of his hand fisted in your hair, jerking your head from the pillow, causes fresh pain to slice bright and hot through you. “Stay _awake,_ Alexander.”

The name curls around your mind slowly, like the lingering fragments of a nightmare, and then the dawning terror and shock blooms in your chest, more tormenting even than the length of him full and unbearable inside you. “No, _no—_ ”

“You promised not to _lie_ to me,” he snarls, teeth marking new bruises into your bared neck, fingers digging into your hips.

Did you promise _that,_ too? You don’t _remember_ — “ _Please_. Please, sir, _please_ don’t hurt me—”

“Then tell me. _Tell me who you are_.”

“Hamilton,” you sob in a burst of helpless feeling, your secret spilling out, tumbling, on a flood of stinging, sick, devastated tears. “ _A-Alexander Hamilton_.”

**Author's Note:**

> A heartfelt _thank you_ to seiya1331, who won my 200 follower giveaway months ago and was both patient and provided me with a truly excellent prompt about Washington as a Queen's Ranger, based off the Turn quote ["all because you deny that feral nature"](http://transcripts.foreverdreaming.org/viewtopic.php?f=229&t=18101). I hope you enjoy!! My additional thanks to dreamlittleyo, for very enthusiastic cheerleading.
> 
> (Hit me up on [tumblr!](http://aidennestorm.tumblr.com/))


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